


Suicide Town: A South Park Fanfiction

by sillygirl888



Category: South Park
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anorexia, Anxiety Attacks, Child Abuse, Depression, Drug Addiction, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Paranoia, Past Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sillygirl888/pseuds/sillygirl888
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because of how he was treated by his family and friends in his childhood, Butters committed suicide before the end of eighth grade. In his note he cited four people that contributed most to his suicide: Stan, Kyle, Eric, and Kenny. The town was never the same.<br/>Two-and-a-half years later, Mr. Garrison’s fourth grade class is entering their Junior year of high school, and each student is fighting their own uphill battle. South Park has fallen into a quite sort of despair, riddled with hopelessness and confused apathy. It is in this state of dejection that the town begins to heal, slowly at first as the citizens learn that isolation leads to heartache and that sometimes the best remedy is a dose of brutal honestly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing But Everything at the Same Time

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of suicide and other harmful behaviors and a small amout of vulgar language Read with caution.

Leopold Stotch looked out of his second story window at the town that had drove him to his breaking point. It was snowing out there, fat flakes drifting to the ground like dying butterflies; afraid of landing, but no longer having the strength to go on. Downstairs he could hear his parents yelling again. Glass was breaking. It always did when they got like this.  
In his hand he held a crumpled piece of lined paper covered in pencil scribbles of nothing but everything at the same time. “Dear mom and dad, I’m afraid I can no longer go on like this….” He read it over. Then he read it over again. It was his fifteenth draft of the note but it still didn’t sound quite right. He figured it would have to do. With shaking hands he placed the paper on his desk, next to a family portrait and his box of razors. Next to that was a fully loaded handgun. His father hadn’t noticed its absence from the safe in his closet for the past two weeks, much to Butter’s advantage. His time was running out. Soon his mother would come up to check on him and explain that it was okay if mommies and daddies fought sometimes. He couldn’t wait that long. He knew that if he did he wouldn’t be able to force the barrel of the gun in his mouth. He would fail again, just like he had every other night for the last fourteen days. He couldn’t go to school again. He couldn’t see those who called them his friends again and suffer their torment another day. This ended tonight.  
The gun was cold on his lips. It had an odd smell to it, a smell that he had gotten used to and almost found comfort in. It would be the last thing he smelled and he was okay with that.  
With the only light illuminating his foggy room coming from his window, Leopold Stotch’s last thought was how pretty the moonlight was reflecting off his chosen weapon of death. Then he squeezed his finger and was finally at rest.

~

Stan Marsh woke again to the sound of a mother’s scream. For a minute his heart beat quickly in his chest and he felt an urgency to run to the Stotch’s house, to put an end to what was about to happen. But soon his pulse slowed and the scream echoing in his head faded away to the buzzing of the alarm clock. Stan took in a deep breath. All that was over now. There was nothing he could do.  
Still, the memory of the morning after flashed behind his tired eyelids as he turned off the alarm and threw back the sheets. His mother’s words bounced around his skull like a tennis ball. “There’s something you boys need to know.”  
The bathroom tile was cold and hard against his bare feet. “He left a note that I think you all should read.” Clink went the seat against the back of the toilet. “Dear mom and dad, I’m afraid I can no longer go on like this….” Bending at the waist. “…those who drove me to this point with the greatest force…” Two fingers down the throat. “…Eric, Kyle, Kenny…” A few quick jabs and his stomach emptied into the porcine bowl. “…and Stan.”  
That morning had changed his life forever. He had run from the house the moment he saw his name of that paper, ran as if he could get away from the guilt and the shame. But it caught up with him and hadn’t yet left. Two-and-a-half years it had been but still he felt like a dirty rag. He had resigned himself to the idea that he always would.  
His phone buzzed as he struggled to pull his jeans on, Kyle’s freckled face smiling out from the screen. He picked it up and stuck it between his shoulder and his ear.  
“Hey,” he huffed into the mouth piece.  
“Hey,” came the almost cheerful reply. “I’m out front, you about ready to go?”  
Stan grabbed his bag and his hat as he rushed out his bedroom door. “Yeah just give me like five minutes.”  
Downstairs his mother was waiting for him, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. She looked frazzled and tired, as she always did nowadays. Her hands shook as she lifted the mug to her lips and took a tentative sip. “Good morning, Stan. Did you sleep well?”  
“Yeah mom. I slept fine.” He felt her watching him as he searched through the pantry.  
“Can I get you some breakfast?” She asked. “I could make you some eggs or get you a cup of coffee or—“  
Stan sighed. “No thanks, mom. I’m running late. I’ll just eat a pop tart on the way.” He clutched one of the crinkly packages and headed toward the door.  
“Oh, okay Stan. Well I’ll see you after school, right? You’ll come back right after school?” Her voice cracked at the end and it broke Stan’s heart. He stopped with his hand on the door nob. A different note came to his mind, one he had found on the living room coffee table about a year ago, addressed to his parents. “Mom and dad—I’m running away with my internet boyfriend. I hate this town and I hate this family. Goodbye.”  
“Yeah mom. I’ll be back right after school.”  
“Okay Stan. I love you!” She called after him as the door closed.  
“Love you, too,” he mumbled even though she wouldn’t be able to hear it.

~

Kyle watched as Stan hurried down the walkway. A gust of wind followed him into the car, bringing with it the crisp smell of dirt and wood. Fall was coming.  
The two sat in silence, and Kyle felt Stan inhale deeply with thinly veiled desperation. On his rough exhale he leaned his head back against the head rest and closed his eyes. His thumb and index finger pinched the bridge of his nose and Kyle couldn’t help but smile and the familiar gesture. Another moment of tense silence until Stan composed himself and nodded for Kyle to finally start the car.  
Houses blurred by quickly as they drove too fast through the streets. The euphoria early morning gave him urged Kyle’s foot further on the peddle than it should go. He wondered briefly if his speed should worry him, but just like any other morning the though fell behind them like the suburbs they left behind.  
“Any word from Ike?” Stan asked as he fumbled with the wrappings of a pop tart. Kyle noticed the quiver in his voice but didn’t mention it, instead graciously accepting the cold pastry Stan offered him.  
“Not since Thursday,” He mumbled around a mouthful of dry cherry-flavored cardboard. The answer hung heavy in the air, the both of them contemplating the true meaning of the statement. Not since Thursday. Not since the fight. Not since he said he’s never coming back. Not since he told me he hates me.  
“That school will be good for him,” Stan offered in efforts to lift the somber mood. Kyle’s head nodded but his heart sunk even lower.  
The jeep came to a red light and Kyle stalled the car. The nerves of the first day of school finally caught up with him and he breathed deeply to still the uneasiness. They say junior year is the most stressful. Kyle wondered how it could be any more stressful the years before. After all, more than one of them tried desperately not to make it this far. He finally caved and took out a cigarette and a lighter, extending the pack to Stan who accepted it reluctantly.  
He felt more than heard the deep rumbling of the engine as a dark figure pulled up next to them on a blue chrome Harley. Nothing showed through the helmet to give away who the rider was, but Kyle didn’t need it to. There was only one person left in town who still rode a Harley, or any motorcycle for that matter, and he had once done Kyle a great service. Kyle gave him a respectful nod and after a pause the figure nodded back. The light turned green and he speed off down the road, leaving the red jeep in its figurative dust.

There were no other cars out that morning, there never was, so Craig had the highway to himself. He took up the space, weaving back and forth across the yellow line, letting the fluid motion and the buzz of the engine rid him of the image of the scar around Kyle’s neck. He did his best to stay away from the Jew, having only nightmarish back flashes when he did, but in a community so small, it was impossible to stay away completely. The town was only so big.  
Within minutes he was at school, parking in his usual spot and lighting up a cigarette. He felt the stares as he strutted through the doors, but he told himself he didn’t notice. A group of freshman girls giggled when he walked by. The senior boys knew better than to approach him, but they sniggered behind his back. Craig focused on the numbers above the rusty lockers doors. Locker 247…locker 247….  
Abruptly he felt his shin connect with something solid and before he could stop himself he fell to the floor. The hallway erupted with the sound of scattering books and laughter. Above him a looming figure chuckled deep, familiar grunts that boiled Craig’s blood. Slowly the figure bent down, breathing down Craig’s neck and bringing goose bumps to his skin. With hot breath and a rough voice he whispered a single word in his ear:  
“Fag.”  
Craig’s hands balled into fists in front of him as Carman loped off down the hallway surrounded by his Posse. He waited until the laughter disappeared around a corner before he took a deep breath to compose himself and began to gather his things. He did his best to ignore the stares he knew he was getting.  
He reached for a book that had slid a few feet away, his biology book it looked like, but a slender, boney hand beat him to it. Craig didn’t need to look up to see who it was.  
“Hey, Red,” he grunted out as they stood with something close to a smile on his face. She grinned back, tucking a strand of her signature red hair behind her ear. Craig took a moment to observe her with concern. Her collar bones pressed against her pale skin like they were trying to escape. He could see her hipbones through her jeans and daylight through her thighs. Her cheeks and eyes were hollow, framed by thinning, dry hair. And she looked tired, tired as if she had never slept a moment of her life. Clearly she was getting worse, but she smiled at him nonetheless. Craig did his best to smile back.  
The two headed down the hallway arm-in-arm, Red’s eyebrows furrowing. “I hope you’re not letting Cartman get to you,” she told her Converse.  
Craig shrugged. Cartman he could deal with. It was everyone else that was starting to wear at his resolve. But he figured he had enough people on his side to keep him sane until his graduation, if he ever got to have one. “Have you seen Tweek?” He asked instead.  
Red shook her head. “I think his dad might have kept him home to work in the shop today.”  
Craig’s mouth set in a grim line. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. It pissed Craig off that neither of Tweek’s parents took their son’s education seriously. It was if they only saw him as another employee.  
Red waved as they passed a group of eager girls crowded around a blond fixing her mascara. She was very obviously engrossed in a riveting tale of her romantic boyfriend, but she paused and energetically waved back. Craig rolled his eyes at the sheer fakeness of her smile.

~

“Tell us more, Bebe!” One of the many girls around her squealed. The others nodded and giggled in agreement.  
Bebe Stevens was very much enjoying the attention. She always did. Of course, such admiration didn’t come easily. She’d worked long and hard, since third grade at least, to become the hottest, most popular girl at in her grade. She’d had plastic surgery done more than once (on the down low of course, nobody liked a Barbie). She spent every cent she could muster on the latest in fashion trends. She even put up with gross Kevin Stoley because he was one of Cartman’s buddies and was good boyfriend stock.  
Yes, her position of Hottest Sophomore (and now Junior) in school was well earned and she sure as hell wasn’t letting it go any time soon.  
“Come on Bebe, what happened next?” Heidi Turner sidled up next her with wide eyes and Bebe’s stomach turned in disgust at her desperation. You’d think a girl would have some self respect, but all Heidi ever did was suck up to her.  
Swallowing her temper, Bebe put on the most embarrassed face she could. “Oh come on guys, the story isn’t that interesting…” She trailed off and waited the split second it took before the group jumped in on top of her with a flurry of “of course it is” and “please tell us.”  
“Oh, alright,” she pretended to relent, much to the group’s squealing delight. She paused for a dramatic effect, but before she could launch into an exaggerated story of how Kevin didn’t-really-save-the-date-but-he-sort-of-did-so-he’s-totally-a-knight-in-shinning-armor, she spotted a familiar dark ponytail bobbing down the hallway.  
“Oh, hey, sorry gals, but I need to talk to Wendy for a sec,” Bebe said almost apologetically and closed her locker with a flourish.  
Heidi’s face scrunched up with distaste. “What do you want with Wendy?” She spat.  
“Maybe she’ll tell me where you both get your god-awful shoes, Heidi,” Bebe shot back with fraudulent sweetness. Pompously she turned on her heel (making sure her blond curls smacked Heidi in the face) and marched toward the locker Wendy was filling. She could hear the stunned silence behind her and could almost feel the embarrassment radiating off the brunette even from down the hall. That’ll teach her to fuck with me, she thought smugly.

~

Wendy Testaburger was very stressed.  
She had more than three protests to attend that week, two of which she was leading. The high school’s Feminist Club needed organizing as the new freshman members came in and the graduated members begged her for recommendations. Her mother had started nagging her about her driver’s license again, even though Wendy had told her more than once that it went against her beliefs. Then there was still church to attend and work to be on time for and trees to plant to save the world and she promised she would help Scott Malkinson set up for his birthday party (to which she also promised she be making an appearance). And on top of all that there was the stress that junior year was sure to bring. She was almost positive she was going to get at least an hour of homework on this first day alone.  
Her head buzzed with concentration as she lifted each book and placed it neatly into her locker. Numbers and dates and times flashed through her mind and she did her best to put item in a working order. She would have to check her daily planner to make sure she wasn’t missing something. She usually was.  
Out of nowhere a pair of pale, squealing arms wrapped tightly around her neck, knocking all schedules and ordering from her mind—quite literally. Blond curls stuck grossly in her mouth with the stale taste of hairspray. All around her was a tight embrace and the sensation of a slender body hopping up and down. The sudden onslaught of noise and motion was disorienting.  
The mass of giggles and perfume stepped away abruptly and Wendy found herself staring into the bright blue eyes of the Hottest Girl in School.  
“Hey Wendy! How was your summer?” Bebe squealed with what Wendy assumed was supposed to be delight. Wendy forced her mouth to smile as she caught her breath.  
“Oh, hey Bebe,” she tried to say, but Bebe was already talking again. Wendy had to scramble to keep up.  
“So I hate to spring something like this on you, I know you have a lot on your plate, and I’m sorry that we didn’t talk much over summer, but I had cheer camp and, well, you know how time-consuming my life can be!” Bebe laughed like a hyena. A pink, glittery hyena that had perfectly winged eyeliner and minty-fresh breath. Wendy laughed along timidly.  
“So, anyway,” Bebe continued as she flung a lock of golden hair behind her shoulder. Wendy shuddered at the smugness in her voice. “I was really hoping that you could help with the cheerleader’s fundraiser on Saturday?” The both of them paused for a moment and Wendy blinked, incredulous. Did Bebe really just ask for her help, after ignoring her all summer? And not just all summer, Bebe had been ignoring Wendy since the start of middle school and she got her period before any other girl in their class. That’s when she started wearing make-up and push-up bras and thought herself better than anyone else. Wendy didn’t really care at first because she was in the middle of her hunger strike, but when it really became obvious that Bebe didn’t want much to do with her anymore, Wendy was basically left friendless and the punch line of the school.  
Things hadn’t gotten much better since then.  
Bebe looked at her with puppy-dog eyes and bit her lip. “Please, Wendy?” She begged. Wendy tried very hard to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “It’s just that some of the girls can’t make it and we really need the money for new uniforms. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t completely desperate and thought it was really important.” She put her hand on Wendy’s shoulder. “I know that you’re just one of those people that loves helping others, and that’s how I knew I could turn to you.”  
Wendy thought for a moment. She had so much other stuff she needed to do, but she couldn’t just let Bebe fend for herself. She may have blown her off during middle school, but was it really her fault that Wendy didn’t put up much of a fight?  
With a defeated sigh she relented, nodding her head with a murmured, “Oh alright.”  
Bebe squealed again and pulled her into another suffocating embrace. “Thank you, Wendy!” She exclaimed pulling away. “I just knew I could count on you!” Wendy smiled tiredly again and turned to finish organizing her locker.  
“Uh, hi Wendy,” came a feeble mutter from behind her.  
Wendy knew that voice. Her stomach dropped to the floor and time seemed to slow down. Looking slowly over her shoulder she caught sight of a familiar figure; tall, lanky body with a brown coat and a red poof-ball hat. He stood there with his hands in his pockets and his back hunched, looking at her with hopeful, pleading eyes.  
Shame boiled inside her, but she let it show through anger. She glared at him and his face fell. She would have yelled at him if Bebe hadn’t beaten her to it.  
“What the hell do you want, Stan?” Bebe folded her arms across her chest. Stan looked at the ground silently. Behind him Kyle rolled his eyes and grabbed Stan’s arm. “Why can’t you get it through your thick head that Wendy never wants to see your ugly face again?” Kyle began pulling Stan down the hall with more than a little bit of resistance from Stan. “Just leave her alone, Stan,” Bebe called after them. “You don’t deserve to talk to her anymore.”  
The two watched the boys merge with the rest of the high school crowd, Kyle looking relieved, Stan looking defeated. Bebe looked back at Wendy with a sympathetic smile on her face. “Boys are so stupid. You alright?” She asked. Wendy thought she almost heard concern in her voice. Of course it wasn’t really because before she had time to answer, Bebe was off again, reminding her of the fundraiser and saying she would text her the details later. Then she was down the hall as well, taking out a pink bedazzled smartphone.  
Wendy had to shake her head at the tall blond. She almost couldn’t believe that they had been best friends back in grade school. They were so different now.  
Wendy busied herself with her locker, putting things in neatly and trying to forget sorrowful brown eyes.  
A sudden crashing sound brought her out of her mind and spun her around. Just a few feet down the hall, Bebe was standing arrogantly over a twitching mess of blond hair and rumpled cloths.  
“Ugh, watch it, spaz,” She yelled down and stepped over it when it whimpered out an apology. Passersby stopped to watch as the poor boy hurried to grab his papers that had strewn across the dirty floor. Huffing with indignation, Wendy shut her locker and shouldered her bag.  
“Hey, Tweek,” she offered with a sweet smile. Tweek jumped a little and looked up at her with enormous green eyes. They softened a little when he saw who it was and he kind of smiled back. “You’re not hurt, are you?” She asked him as she bent down to grab a few of his papers. Tweek shook his head quickly alongside a violent eye twitch. A frantic “argh” escaped his lips, but they were both unfazed. Wendy was used to Tweek Tweak’s outbursts by now, most of the South Park residents were.  
He grabbed his two coffee cups—the special kind with a top that didn’t leak so he wouldn’t spill with his shaking hands—and the two of them stood. She handed him the loose papers she had picked up and he accepted them gratefully. Together they walked down the hall. Wendy looked for something to say to the boy shaking beside her. He didn’t look like he was up for conversation. His head was down and was uttering little sounds of distress from the back of his throat. She figured what he needed was someone who could make sure he had taken his meds without offending him. She was not that person.  
“I think I saw Craig heading toward the bleachers,” she told him.  
He looked at her with relief and thanked her, hurrying off down the hall again. Wendy watched him go with the ghost of a grin on her lips. Gingerly she turned around and made her way to her first classroom. She figured it would be quiet enough there to finish scheduling her week.

~

Tweek Tweak searched desperately for Craig Tucker. Wendy had said he was out by the bleachers, but that didn’t stop him from analyzing each face of the people he passed. There were so many of them, he could easily miss his friend if he wasn’t careful. Would Craig be mad if Tweek didn’t meet him before school like he said he would?  
“Oh Jesus,” he muttered under his breath as he urged his legs to go faster. This was way too much pressure.  
The hallway shifted and twisted as he hurried on, changing direction or color or length whenever he blinked. His heart beat quickly. He felt like a hamster caught in a never-ending hamster wheel. Jesus, what if he was? What if he was really just a hamster and his whole life has been one long hamster dream and he was going to wake up locked in a cage with a mean kid towering over him? “Oh jesus,” he mumbled again. His hands shook so violently he almost dropped his mugs.  
It took much too long, but finally he reached the end of the corridor, breaking though with a flourish and a gasping at the cleansing air. Things were much more bearable here in the open space where sound had more room to float around and the oxygen was cleaner.  
It didn’t take long for him to spot a familiar blue chullo above the other winter hats, bobbing somewhere on the top row of the bleachers.  
“Hey there, Tweekers,” Craig beamed happily as Tweek Tweak approached. Tweek could see his face light up and he smiled to himself. Only he could make Craig happy. It was the only thing he was good at. No one else made Craig happy like Tweek did, not even Rebecca, who was taking up Tweek’s spot under Craig’s arm.  
“Hello, Tweek,” Rebecca said too loudly, pretending to smile.  
“Oh, h-hi Rebecca,” Tweek stammered, saying a quick apology in his head.  
He had forgotten that Rebecca could read minds.  
“Is one of those for me?” Craig asked, nodding to the cups in Tweek’s hands. Tweek took a moment to remember why he had two cups of coffee and decided that yes, one was definitely for Craig. He wordlessly shoved it against Craig’s chest and Craig took it, chuckling. “You don’t have work?” He asked, taking a drag off of the cigarette his other hand.  
“No,” Tweek replied softly, and left it at that. Kenny had taken his shift today, saying that Tweek’s education was important. But Tweek wondered that if his own education was important, wasn’t Kenny’s education important, too? Kenny didn’t answer that question, though.  
Rebecca’s phone buzzed and she stepped away to answer it, saying something about her mother being overbearing again. Before she had a chance to change her mind, Tweek snuggled under Craig’s arm.  
“So Tweek,” Craig began with a mischievous grin on his face. He casually put his cigarette out on the bleachers and dropped it in between the seats, taking in a breath to suggest what Tweek assumed was going to be an illegal activity.  
“Hey!” A bitter female voice shouted from below them.  
In unison, the boys looked down at their feet, catching the heavily mascaraed eye of an angry-looking Henrietta Biggle through the space between the seats. Next to her sat Michael, and Pete and in the middle of their makeshift circle they had placed at least ten candles in varying sizes, colors, and scents. Each of them were lit, giving off a putrid stench that reminded Tweek of death. He shivered inwardly.  
“Watch it, conformist, we’re in the middle of something important,” Michael spat as Pete picked the cigarette butt out of Henrietta’s hair.  
“Oh, fuck off, goth kid,” Craig shot back. They continued to bicker for a few minutes, nothing Tweek wasn’t used to. Craig bickered with anyone who gave him a big enough response. Tweek couldn’t figure out why. Eventually, the goths moved on, mumbling about finding a quieter place to resummon Cthulhu. Craig laughed after them as they retreated, candles in hand.  
“He’s such a prick,” Michael complained as Craig’s daunting laugher faded away behind them.  
Pete flipped his red-and-black hair out of his face. “Who cares?” he said.  
None of them did.  
The options of “hang out” spaces was limited for The Goths. In elementary school they would smoke and drink behind the gym. They were left relatively undisturbed there, besides the occasional playground taunting and interruption from one of Stan Marsh’s gang. Finding a permeant spot got harder as the older three moved on to middle school, where the teasing left behind “childish play” and became something a lot more like “bullying” and “physical assault.” Mostly they would huddle in the corner of the boy’s locker room or maybe under a tree on the front lawn.  
High school was even worse.  
Sometimes they were under the bleachers but sometimes they were behind the gym and sometimes they were on the loading dock near the cafeteria and other times they were forced to break into an unused classroom. Rarely were they in the same spot for an entire break period. Three years of that and they were used to it by now, but even if they wouldn’t admit it out loud, they all missed the old days. They missed having a predictable place of belonging but mostly they missed Firkle.  
Cartman and his gang were behind the gym and the cafeteria ladies weren’t in the mood to let them onto the dock, so they searched for a classroom to duck into. Most of them were occupied by teachers or just didn’t have the right vibe, but finally they found one in the history department. It was quiet and far away from the rest of the morning ruckus. Wendy and Token were already there, but they quickly gathered their stuff and left them alone. If anyone, Wendy was the nicest to them. Pete may have even had crush on her once. But that was a long time ago, of course, back when she was still Stan’s girl and was off-limits.  
“It’s going to be totally sweet,” Token insisted as the pair left the goth’s space. Wendy nodded absently. Her lack of enthusiasm disappointed Token, but it wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to. He figured it must be from the combined stress of school and her disinterest in the subject. Still, Token couldn’t help but continue to gush. This was his favorite subject, after all, and it’s not like he had anyone else to tell.  
“Craig wrote all the lyrics, and I wrote in the notes and stuff. I’m really proud of it, I think it’s one of our best yet.” They passed a practice room from which a violin could be heard. It was beautiful, played with a skill that only one kid at South Park High possessed. “Hey, Clyde,” Token shouted as he stuck his head in. The brown-haired boy was lost his instrument and the music blaring from his ear buds. After several other failed attempts to get the kid’s attention he gave up, setting a copy of the freshly printed sheet music on his back pack. He joined Wendy back in the hall with a quiet shake of his head.  
“That kid and his violin, man,” he sighed. “Anyway, I think it’s going to be a hit. We don’t have a lot of time to get it sorted out before our concert on Saturday, but I’m sure we’ll be fine. We’ve dealt with worse.”  
“Yeah, I’m sure you have,” Wendy said. Her voice was flat. One flat line, like a dead heartbeat. Token sighed internally. He may as well give this subject a rest for the time being.  
“What are you doing all this week?” He asked her. This would get her talking for sure. No doubt she had countless events she was attending. She could probably go on for hours.  
And she probably would have.  
But before she got through much beyond her Feminist Club Token had tuned out, instead focused intently on a woman down the hall that was far more interesting. Token watched as she talked with a few of her girl friends. He admired her ebony skin glinting in the sun and the way she tilted her head back when she laughed. She was beautiful and vibrant and Token was totally mesmerized.  
As they approached, Token caught her eye and lifted his hand in a gentle wave. Nichole stared back at him for a few tense moments, contemplating, until finally she gave a soft smile back. The radiant expression made Token’s heart lift, even if only a little bit.  
“You got a problem, Black?” An angry voice snapped behind him. Startled, Token and Wendy both spun around, finding themselves staring straight into the beady eyes of a very angry Eric Cartman.  
“No, of course not, Eric,” Token managed to stumble out.  
“Then stop staring at my girlfriend.” He spat out.  
Token cautiously slid his eyes to Wendy and saw that she looked sad, looking down the at the ground over the books held close to her chest.  
“I wasn’t staring, Eric. I was just going to say hello. It’s called manners.” He tentatively draped his arm over Wendy’s shoulder for good measure.  
Eric eyed them pointedly as they walked off. Token began to look over his shoulder but thought better of it.  
The rest of the hall had cleared out. Class was going to start soon, and Eric’s anger was enough to clear any room. Everyone had left but Nichole, who was leaning against the lockers, not daring to meet his eyes.  
“What was that, Nichole?” He asked her. She meekly shrugged her boney shoulders but he pressed further. “Are you cheating on me?” She shrugged again. He banged a fist on the lockers by her head and she jumped, squeezing her eyes shut and taking in a deep breath to keep in a noise of surprise. He was more than a head taller than her, and it was no question that he could crush her if he lost control of himself. “Answer me! Do you just not love me anymore? Is that it?”  
Nichole looked up at him with wet eyes. “No, Eric, I do still love you. I was just trying to be nice!”  
“Well, don’t be,” he said. “Not to Token. He doesn’t really care about you. He’s just trying to get in you pants.” Nichole looked at the ground sadly. Gingerly, like he was handling the face of a deer, he cupped her chin in his giant palm and forced her to look up at him. “I’m just trying to watch out for you,” he whispered, and after placing a tender kiss on her forehead he left her with a disinterested “see you in class.”  
Once he had disappeared down the hall, Nichole ran to the bathroom, tears threatening to fall and ruin her eyeliner. She couldn’t be sure why she was crying. It wasn’t like Eric had hit her. He just yelled at her a little bit. It’s nothing she shouldn't be used to. Still, she swiped angrily at her eyes and reapplied thick, dark liquid where it was needed. Shy was she so emotional all the time?  
She had to get to class.

**A/N: Hi there! This is honestly the first fanfiction I've ever written, so please let me know in the comments what you think and how I can improve, I would really appreciate it! Hope you enjoy!**


	2. Mysterion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains details of an abusive marriage and a fair amount of vulgar language. Read with caution.

There had been no customers all day and Kenny McCormick was bored. For hours he had been there, since the shop opened at 6 am, and he had not served a single person. Officer Barbrady came in briefly but he didn’t order anything—at least nothing Kenny could make with a coffee maker.  
Kenny didn’t like being alone. If he was alone, he had to actually listen to his thoughts, and listening to his thoughts was never enjoyable.  
They started with school. Kenny wondered how everyone else was fairing and if they were learning anything important. He predicted who would be in which of his classes and which of his teachers would be the hardest. He considered the possibility that they might be getting homework. Then he began to worry. If they were getting homework, would he be behind when he actually did go to class? He stressfully wondered if he could ditch his shift to attend the last few hours and pondered the likelihood that he would miss a customer if he did. In the end, though, he realized that he didn’t actually care about school. He would be just as bored and learn just as little. At least here, alone at the shop, no one would be telling him what he could and could not do.  
To prove his own point, he lit up a cigarette. Gradually, and with no way of explaining how, his thoughts moved on from everyone else’s education to everyone else’s families. They were not really thoughts, more like names and faces flashing though his mind attached to a list of problems Kenny felt he needed to fix. There was Stan and Kyle and that paved way to Shelly and Sharon and Wendy. Wendy made him think of Token and Token made him think of Cartman and Cartman made him think of pretty much everyone else. Then he thought of Bebe and Red and Clyde and finally Tweek Tweak and Craig.  
Speak of the devils.  
The bell above the door dinged as Tweek stumbled in, Craig sauntering after.  
“H-hey, Kenny,” Tweek managed to squeak out, cowering against Craig’s sturdy frame.  
Kenny smiled. “So how was the big day?” Craig shrugged and Tweek shuddered out an agh, finally catching sight of the cigarette in Kenny’s hand.  
“ _K-k-kenny_ you’re n-not supposed to s-smoke in the shop! Th-that’s so _u-u-unhealthy_!” Kenny and Craig shared a look. When Tweek started to stutter it meant he wan’t far from lapsing into a panic attack, a state that he was almost impossible to coax out of.  
“Y-you’re gonna set the p-place on _fire_!”  
“Alright, alright, Tweek, I’ll put it out,” Kenny sighed. He stubbed the tip on the counter, much to Tweek’s quivering exasperation, but stuck the rest of it back into it’s package. He didn’t have the money to be wasting cigarettes.  
Grumbling about stained counter tops, Tweek disappeared inside the back room to change into his work uniform, leaving the other boys in an almost awkward silence. Craig leaned against the counter and stared out the large wall of windows.  
“You weren’t in school,” he finally said in his bored, nasally voice.  
Kenny chuckled as he lifted the apron over his head and draped it over the counter. “No shit, Sherlock.”  
Craig was silent for a few moments, staring blankly out at the street. “Why didn’t you go.”  
It wasn’t a question. Craig didn’t ask questions. He demanded answers.  
Kenny sighed again. “I figured if anyone could afford missing the first day of the most stressful year of high school, it was me.”  
A strange look passed over Craig’s face. “You’ve already missed like half of freshman year and most of sophomore year.”  
“Exactly. I’ve already practically dropped out, there would be no point in going if it would mean Tweek couldn’t go.”  
Craig scoffed. “As if you would go otherwise.”  
Silence fell between them again. Kenny itched to relight his cigarette. I have a problem, he told himself for what must have been the millionth time, but just like every other time his thoughts fell on his own deaf ears. To distract himself, he drummed his fingers on the counter.  
“Okay, Kenny, you can go if you w-want,” Tweek stammered as he stumbled out of the back room. His toe hit the corner of the counter and Craig went to attend to his squeals of frustration and pain.  
“Uh, I’ll see you guys later then,” Kenny said awkwardly, but neither of them were paying attention. Feeling rejected, he made his way out of the shop, the bell ringing above him as he did.

~

The walk home was a lonely one, but not one he made alone. He passed many a familiar face along the way—Wendy making posters with Bebe and the cheerleaders, Cartman and his gang playing basketball on the courts in the park, Token and Clyde wailing on instruments in Clyde’s open garage—but he kept his distance. His mark wasn’t meant to be made in the middle of the day.  
With a dejected sigh, Kenny finally stepped onto his cracked porch, kicking away clumps of dirt and loose pieces of brick that had broken off. Leaning his head against the peeling paint of his front door, he closed his eyes. He breathed deeply. _Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale._ Inside he could hear yelling, yelling and screaming and the sounds of slapping here and there. Nothing he wasn’t used to.  
For minutes Kenny stayed on the porch. He didn’t want to go inside, but he knew that he had to. Or did he? He had his backpack, stuffed with an extra pair of cloths, a water bottle, and a pack of cigarettes. He could hide if he wanted to, spend a night behind a dumpster or maybe at a friends if anyone was feeling unusually generous.  
A memory flickered behind his eyelids. A night almost year ago he spent against a trash can. A night when a figure loomed out of the night and took everything he had. A night when a dark stranger kicked him in the stomach, against his ribs, across his face, everywhere. A night a terrifying monster wouldn’t stop kicking him.  
The next morning a child stood by his side and looked up at him with hopeless eyes and wet cheeks as he leaned over the bathroom counter, tending to the wounds on his own face.  
_“Promise me you won’t do that again, Kenny.”_ She had begged. _“Promise me you won’t sleep on the street again. Promise me you won’t not come home again.”_  
_“Okay, Karen. I promise.”_  
From somewhere inside came the sicking sound of glass breaking. He hoped against the spirits of inevitability that it was one of his mother’s unless vases. Nobody wanted those anyway. The only other thing it could be was a window, and if it was a window they would be left in the cold until they could get it fixed. And God only knew how long that would take.  
With a deep breath and determined shoulders, Kenny pushed his way inside, making a bee line for the lopsided stairs. They creaked under his weight, making annoyed threats of collapsing beneath him, but he hurried on. Bellow him he could hear his parents in the kitchen, shouting over each other. “You always do this.” “Stupid bitch.” “We have no money.” “I need to eat.” “Get off your fucking ass.” “Do something for once.” “Stop doing stupid shit.” “I’ll divorce your ass before I let you take my money.” “Why are you so goddamned useless?”  
_Why are you so goddamned useless?_  
The sounds faded a bit as he made his way down the dreary hallway. As he passed Karen’s open doorway he found her propped against her headboard, a pair of cheap headphones positioned over her ears. Even across the room he could hear the peppy beats of a boyband’s single playing. He took in her bleak room as he made his way over, studying the drooping tween pop singer posters spread across the white walls and the unstable study desk in the corner. In her lap rested an outdated tween magazine she often snagged from the trashcans of her friends’ houses.  
Karen barley acknowledged Kenny’s added presence except to move to side as he climbed under the covers with her. Another smashing sound found its way up to the pair and Kenny prayed that Karen couldn’t hear it, placing his arm around her shoulders as if he could protect her from the life she was forced to live.  
The sound of his parents’ anger echoed down the halls, yelling and smashing and slapping. The soundtrack of his life. His eyes prickled in frustration. He wouldn’t let himself cry, of course. What kind of big brother cried in front of his little sister? But his heart still felt a rush of sadness and anger.  
Resting his cheek against Karen’s frazzled hair, he closed his eyes, letting the sound of muffled music surround him and drown out everything else.

~

At some point he must have fallen asleep, because when he jerked awake again it was past dusk outside. The watch on his wrist told him it was almost 6:30 pm. Karen was still asleep in his arms with her headphones askew on her head, so gingerly he climbed out from under her and positioned her on her bed, taking off her headphones and shoes and pulling up the thin covers.  
Peaking downstairs, he found that it was empty. The van was gone and so were his parent’s jackets, so he assumed that they had each left to their own “private place”—for his father the bar, for his mother some other person’s house with heating and non-frozen food. Probably the Broflovski’s.  
Taking advantage of the solitude, he snuck up to his bedroom, throwing open the closet door and shoving aside the useless garments hanging there. A familiar feeling began to grow deep inside his gut. It was an indescribable feeling, a feeling of warmth and excitement and _importance_ that spread throughout his body and set his blood on fire. A feeling that proved he could actually _feel_.  
His fingers searched the back of his closet for a rusting latch, pulling up and out when they felt the cold metal. With a hollow thudding sound echoed and the back of his closet fell away, revealing a secret compartment almost as big as the closet itself. Kenny smiled to himself. Within the compartment laid a purple suit and a dark cape, a dark green “M” slathered on the chest.

 

**A/N: Sorry it's taken me so long to update! I know this chapter is a lot shorter than my first one, but that's just how I'm going to write it from now on. My life is a train wreck and so I don't have that much time to write, and even when I do I'm a painfully slow writer. So I'll be having shorter chapters, but hopefully they will be far more frequent. Thank you for reading and I do hope that you will leave me a comment on what you think, I very much appreciate those!**


	3. Red Spider Webs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of self harm and other harmful behaviors. Read with caution.

Stan stared directly into the toilet bowl. He imagined he could see his reflection in the muck, pictured his red, puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks and messy black hair. One last choke-and-heave and his stomach emptied into the brown water, taking the rest of his strength with it. He bent over with his hands on his knees.

He took a moment to catch his breath. Ragged gasps came irregularly and tore down his throat as a thick bead of blood run down his arm. He watched as it paused at each old scar, reaching along the crevices of his skin and leaving behind streaks of blood that painted red spider webs across his wrist. Others followed its path, chasing it off his palm and into the porcelain bowl below.

A call from downstairs startled him out of his stupor. He shook his head a few times to clear away the fog and flushed the toilet. The lid _clinked_ shut.

“Be right there,” he called over his shoulder as he dashed across the hall into his room. Quickly her changed out of his jeans that were stained from the soiled toilet water and through a jacket over his cut up wrist.

As he thudded down the stairs he tossed a stick of peppermint gum into his mouth. The pictures on the wall stared out at him. Baby Stan and 1990s Randy looked at him with anger. Why couldn’t he be the person he was before? A family picture of them playing in the snow, the four of them laughing against a backdrop of white, tugged at his heart. He smiled at the memory and the others like it, the ones from when they were still a family. Just-graduated Shelly burned holes in his back as he made his way into the kitchen. _She_ knew who's fault all of this _really_ was.

“What’s up, mom?” The bar stool squeaked under his weight.

The kitchen was a mess. Water rushed and pots _clanged_ and something was burning on the stove. Sharon Marsh bustled around desperately, but the scene wasn’t new. It happened almost every night, in fact. Stan sighed and began cleaning up after her mess, turning off the stove and loading the dishwasher.

“H-how was school, Stan?” Sharon asked. She leaned against the counter, trying too hard to look natural. Stan avoided eye contact.

“It was fine. Kyle and I have a lot of the same classes.”

“Oh, that’s nice. And how is Wendy?”

Stan paused with a plate in his hands. He stood quietly for a moment, fighting back a wave of indiscernible emotions. Sharon cocked her head and smiled at him like nothing was wrong. She probably wasn’t even paying attention. Nevertheless he smiled back and gave her the answer he knew that she wanted.

“She’s great mom. We’re great.”

Sharon barely let him finish before she was shoving a plate of food in his face. “Here,” she said earnestly. “I made your favorite.”

Stan’s stomach turned. Atop the plate sat a steaming heap of cheesy potatoes, microwavable pizza bites, and macaroni and cheese with bacon bits. His favorites when they were separate, but together they didn’t even look edible. Especially when this was what she served him every night.

He plastered a smile on his face through his nausea. “Thanks, mom.”

She stared back at him expectantly. Uncomfortable with her intense gaze, he shifted his weight and looked around the kitchen as if it could explain his mother’s behavior. “Well,” she started. “Aren’t you going to eat it?”

Stan’s heart sped up. He had to get out of this. No way was he eating a single bite of this hot mess, not after he had just made himself sick. His stomach was already weak from the smell. He scrambled for an excuse.

“I have a lot of homework, mom. Do you think I could eat it in my room?”

Sharon pursed her lips, disappointed. “I guess so. But make sure you eat it all.”

“And don’t work yourself too hard, Stan!” Her call followed him up the dark staircase. He let the darkness eat the echo as dozens of soulless eyes burned holes in the back of his neck.

~

His room was a hollow shell of his former self. There were memories here, but they were devoid of feeling and only added to the emptiness.

The light flickered on overhead. Stan tossed the cold plate on his nightstand with a solid _thud_. The window across the rooms stood open, breathing gusts of chilly wind that brought goosebumps to his skin. It didn’t occur to him that he was not the one that had opened it until his eyes caught sight of the shadow standing against the backdrop of night. The sudden shock of learning he wasn’t alone made him jump, but he soon recovered. He knew instantly who it was, everyone did. It wasn’t anyone important.

Stan rolled his eyes and took a seat at his desk. The sheets of homework spread across the top slipped over each other, sliding off the desk and onto the floor. With so much of it he was going to be up all night.

He ignored the hooded figure as it slunk down from his window sill and leaned against the frame of his bed. A few tense minutes went by as the caped boy stared him down and Stan tried to brush it off. He pretended to do his homework, but the awkwardness of the situation and the left over anxiety from the long day was distracting him.

“Are you going to eat your dinner, Stan?” The intruder finally spoke. Stan refused to reply. He wasn’t going to have this conversation again.

“Stan?” Still he stayed silent but the intruder wasn’t giving up. “Are you going to eat your dinner?”

Finally Stan cracked. “I’m not hungry,” he said hotly.

“I’m surprised, considering you just emptied your stomach.” Stan exhaled and shook his head angrily but didn’t respond.

After a moment the boy moved forward, taking a leftover chair from across the room and pulling up alongside Stan at his desk. He stared. Stan avoided eye contact and avoided touch, but his space was invade and he could only take the hot breath on his neck for so long.

He indignantly shoved himself away from the desk, standing up and walking across the room. “What the hell do you want, Kenny? I’m trying to do my homework.”

Mysterion leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest. He watched as Stan angrily rustled through his backpack “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I don’t want to fucking talk about it. I want to fucking do my homework.” He was back, sitting down and scribbling fiercely in a school notebook. Mysterion watched him almost humorously.

“Okay then. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Good.”

Mysterion stood and wandered over to the posters on his wall. He took in the star charts and fingered the telescope standing at attention in the corner. “Who do you have for science this year?”

It took a moment, but Stan couldn’t stop himself from discussing his favorite subject. “Mrs. Evans. She seems like she’s gonna be okay. At least she’s into astronomy, too.”

“Kevin had her, too. He just liked her because she has big tits.”

Stan couldn’t argue with that.

“Have you seen that new zombie movie at the theater yet?” Mysterion had made his way back to Stan and was looking at the books on his book shelf. There was nothing new there, Stan didn’t read as often as he did in middle school, but Mysterion still liked reading over the titles and imagining the worlds each bound cover held.

Stan scoffed. “Yeah. It’s the biggest pile of shit I’ve ever seen, if you ask me.”

Mysterion chuckled. “It wasn’t too bad. Just cheesy.”

“Aw c’mon,” Stan rolled his eyes, scooting away from his desk to look at Mysterion with the slightest of grins on his face. “You could totally tell that the brains weren’t real. They didn’t even have any explosions, except the one, but it was, like, ant sized.” Mysterion hid a smile and Stan turned back to his work. “The only person that movie scared was Kyle, and everything scares Kyle.”

Mysterion couldn’t keep himself from laughing out loud at that. He slipped off his hood and strayed back to Stan’s bed, taking a seat and thinking that he could probably fall asleep there. Stan’s bed was so much more comfortable than his own. It was soft and plushy and wasn’t lumpy like his was. “Speaking of Kyle,” he started, letting the lighter mood from moments before fall lump under his feet. “How is he? I haven’t talked to him since Thursday night at Stark’s Pond.”

Stan took a while to answer. “He’s fine, I guess. As fine as you would expect him to be.”

Mysterion nodded to himself. Kyle had been upset for too long. Four-and-a-half days was too long to be down in the dumps. Mysterion figured he’d have to make a call to Ike, bribe him with something if he had to. It’d worked before.

“We could go there if you wanted,” he said after pulling himself out of his thoughts. Stan didn’t answer but Mysterion could sense his confusion. “Stark’s Pond, I mean. Maybe you just need some time out of this house and out of your own head. Get some fresh air.”

But Stan was shaking his head. “I’d like to, but I really need to do my homework, Kenny.”

“You know what homework needs? Fuel.”

Stan put his pencil down and took a deep breath. He was fighting against it, but he knew what he needed to do. “Okay, fine,” he said.

Mysterion gently stood, grabbed the plate from the night stand, and softly placed in front of Stan where he had made a clear space for it.

Fighting back the revulsion churning in his gut, Stan reached for the fork and dug it into the indistinguishable mess of yellow. It was sure to be cold now, a sickening thought, but still he forced the bite up to his mouth and past his lips. Every bit was as gross as he thought it would be, but he looked at Kenny laying on his bed with one of his old books in his hands and was somehow able to choke down the next forkful.

After he had finished, Kenny took the plate for him and left his room. Stan was left in emptiness. Kenny wasn’t going to come back that night. He had too much he needed to do for too many people. But as Stan listened to Kenny’s voice lightly mixing with his mother’s downstairs, he smiled to himself and was grateful that someone out there cared that much about him, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

**A/N:** **So _finally_ Chapter 3 is up! I'm so sorry everyone, I hope you haven't given up on me yet. I _will_ finish this fanfiction no mater how long it takes, but it shouldn't take this long for me to update again. Please continue to let me know what you think in the comments, every comment is appreciated!**


	4. Garbage Bins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains detailed descriptions of eating disordered thoughts and actions. Read with caution.

The darkness weighed on Red’s back like a wet blanket. It was crisp outside, she knew that because her ballet madam had said so when she left the studio, but to her it might as well have been a snow storm. She shivered in the folds of her oversized sweatshirt and hugged her dance bag close to her chest.

Dim street lights and brilliant porch lights lit her path. Occasionally a car’s headlights passed down the road, tossing everything into a mesh of dancing shadows. Red took a deep breath to still the vertigo the dizzying display gave her and smushed her earbuds further into her ears. She was almost home.

She turned down a familiar street and paused. A certain someone lived on this street. A certain someone that Red was desperate to avoid. The way she saw it, she had two options: go down this street and hope that she was alone the five minutes it took to leave it behind, or turn around and take the long way home yet risk fainting in the middle of the street (it had happened plenty of times before). Red didn’t want to have any kind of confrontation, but she was anxious to get home. And it wasn’t like the certain someone would just be out and about at this time anyway.

She continued forward.

You could see more stars in South Park than you could in most other places of the United States, something about less pollution, but Red kept her head down and her eyes shut. She was nauseous. She almost always made it a priority to eat something before class, but with the enormous breakfast she had, she had already eaten too much for the day. She had planned on fasting the next day, and maybe that would shave off another half of a pound, but at this rate she wouldn’t be able to get out of bed tomorrow if she didn’t eat _something_. The thoughts went back-and-forth in her mind. Was she allowed to eat when she got home? Or would she just have to stick it out for another twenty-eight hours? The war was endless. To eat or not to eat?

A rush of cold wind scraped across the back of her neck, and Red shivered violently. She reached up but before she was able to take down the bun sitting on top of her head, she collided with something solid and was suddenly on the ground, sparks dancing in her eyes and a throbbing in her backside.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry, dude,” she heard a frantic voice saying through one ear as she struggled to grab the ear bud that had fallen out during her fall. Hands were on her arms and elbows, pulling her back to her feet. She almost fell again, her knees were aching and wanting to give out, but the stranger threw her arm around a sturdy neck and led her limping to well-lit porch. She sunk down on it to catch her breath.

“There you go, Red.” Only then did she recognize the voice. She froze with her head between her knees and a classical tune drifting from the earbuds at her sides. The shoes waiting in front of her were familiar and she knew the feel of the hands rubbing her back. Guilt surged through her. She wanted to bolt, and she would have if she could have so much as lifted a hand. But her heart was dancing strangely in her chest and her head was pounding so she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that he would go away.

He didn’t.

“Man, I really didn’t mean to walk into you like that. I was just trying to take the garbage bins out. I didn’t even hear you coming up behind me. Your so skinny it’s like you don’t even make a sound, huh?” He chuckled, but the comment felt like a stab to the gut. “Red?” He bent forward and looked at her from upside-down. “Do you want some water, Red?”

Red took a deep breath, gathered all of her strength, and sat up. “No thank you, Clyde.” She looked him in the eye and smiled as best she could. “I think I’m alright.” Slowly she stood to leave. Clyde reached out to help her stabilize, but she grabbed the stair railing instead. Slowly she turned her back on him and started again on her way.

Clyde let her walk for a few moments in silence, and she almost got her hopes up that he would leave things as they were. But no more than ten paces away he called out to her and jogged to catch up.

“Hey Red,” he stared at the ground, unsure of himself. He shoved his hands in his letterman’s jacket pockets, but Red just wished he would get on with it so they could be done with this ordeal. “I was just wondering if you were going to go to Malkinson’s on Friday.” He paused and kicked a stone on the path. Red stared ahead in silence and Clyde filled it with more useless babbling. “It’s just that the guys and I got a new song we’re doing, and Scott’s letting us to a full-time set this time. It’s kinda a big deal and like I was just wondering if you were going to be there…” He faded away and joined Red in her silence.

Red shrugged after a moment. “Yeah I think I’ll be there,” she finally said.

Clyde’s face lit up when he looked at her. “That’s uh—that’s great!” He stammered. He began to back up, back to his house. “Then I’ll see you there. Well, I’ll see you in class tomorrow, too, but at Malkinson’s, too. Uh anyway, those garbage bins aren’t gonna take themselves out to the curb—” his back hit a street lamp and the surprise almost made him tripped over his own feet. He caught his fall on a near-by stop sign and looked at her with a sheepish smile. “Bye.” He managed a small wave and headed back home. He only turned around to look at her once.

Red began her short journey home again on frozen, brittle legs. One of her earbuds was broken from when she landed on it falling, and an eerie piece of piano crackled from the remaining one. She turned it off. She should have taken the long way, and then she wouldn’t have had to talk to _him_. It was _her_ fault this whole thing happened.

No way did she deserve any dinner after that hot mess.

**A/N: I _know_ that this chapter took forever and is really short, but the next chapter is coming soon and it's going to be really good and long, I promise. Just bare with me! As always, comments are always welcome. I love hearing that people liked my story and I am always thankful for the constructive criticism my fellow writers can provide. Thank you very much for reading!**

 


	5. Waking Up In Hell

Kenny was dead. Again. He couldn’t remember how, the last few minutes before waking up in hell were a blur, but he had a feeling it involved a car. Again.

He took a moment to take in his surroundings, to recognize the area, before he shakily pushed himself to his feet. His head was pounding and beads of sweat dripped down his back. Why was hell so goddamned hot?

Kenny found himself at the top of a rocky cliff at the bottom of which rushed a glowing river of boiling lava. Almost directly next to the river wound a narrow, beaten path that snaked its way along the river’s bank and disappeared off into the distance. He’d been to hell so many times that he knew almost every place of it like the back of his hand. If his memory was correct, he was almost at the edge (yes, even hell had boundaries), but if he headed north along the path, he was sure to meet civilization at some point. Or at least whatever kind of civilization existed in hell.

With a dramatic sigh, he began his climb down the rough cliff face. Sharp edges tore at his clothing and cut into his skin, but he was content in the knowledge that the scars would fade when he went back to the world of the living.

It didn’t take long for him to reach the narrow path of dirt that circled the base of the cliff. He hugged himself and began his trek down the path. The river at his feet burned his calves and splashed up against the rocks, sending up sprinkles of lava to scald his bare skin through the rips in his clothes. He winced with every droplet but did his best to ignore it.

A few minutes of sore walking and he came upon the first of what he called the Sufferers—poor souls chained up to be tortured for all eternity at the mercy of whoever felt malicious when stumbling upon them. Not everyone who went to hell became a Sufferer, Kenny knew. Sometimes they became Hiders, who ran and cowered from every shadow, ducking into rock crevices to shield themselves from whatever it was that they feared so much. Sometimes they became Normals, who lived their afterlife much like they had their first—buying and selling services, living in make-shift homes, finding romances, learning from dead professors. Some even became Tormentors, Satan’s hand-picked side-kicks, armed with weapons of torture, tasked with bringing suffering to every creature in the Underworld. Kenny could never figure out what decided someone’s fate. It might be a result of how you had lead your life, or maybe it was just a luck of the draw. It wasn’t like Damien was going to tell him.

Speak of the son of the devil.

“Better luck next time, dumbass,” Kenny heard his smug voice say somewhere to his right. Moments later, the mangled body of a dead older man flew over his head, landing with a splash in the fiery lake. His screams of agony echoed back between the canyons as his burning corpse floated away. Kenny figured Damien must be somewhere atop the ridge that loomed over him. He began to climb.

Breaching the top of the ridge, Kenny found himself staring straight up into the egotistical face of the teenage-looking boy. He was tall, and from Kenny’s angle he looked even taller. Kenny was hit by a sense of vertigo, but hell’s heat had that affect on him.

“Well, look at that,” Damien mused, crossing his arms across his chest. “Another dumbass.” Kenny stared up at him for a quiet moment. Damien’s combat boots were dangerously close to his hands, which were barely managing to keep their grip on the edge of the rock. There was a number of things Damien might do, from stomping on his fingers to tossing him into the lake along with the dead man. Damien was unpredictable, and Kenny had nowhere to run.

After a minute or two of tension, Kenny’s arms aching with the effort of holding him up, Damien finally broke out into laughter and held out a hand. Kenny took it cautiously. Thankfully all Damien did was pull him up to his feet and give him a hearty slap on the shoulder.

“Back again, I see,” he said humorously as he turned on his heel

“Uh, yeah,” Kenny said disconnectedly as he took in the area. The sight was not unfamiliar to him. Standing in the center of the space was a rotting wooden table with an elaborate chess board placed on top. Black and white figures of hellish creatures were arranged randomly on the board and a few (mostly black) sat off to the side of it. Damien took a heavy seat on one of the two rickety chairs on either side of the table and looked at him with his arms folded and his feet splayed out in front of him. He grinned.

“So, Ken, tell me.” His black eyes bored into Kenny’s soul and as much as Kenny would like to say that he was so used to that stare that it didn’t even affect him anymore, that couldn’t be further from the truth. “How exactly are things going in poor-old South Park?”

Damien’s grin told Kenny that he already knew. He used to make regular trips into the town to “soak up the misery” until his father forbad him from making unscheduled trips to the living world. Something about having to “focus on his chores,” although Kenny couldn’t imagine what kind of chores Damien was neglecting since he still found time to play chess with the dead.

“They’re pretty much exactly the same,” Kenny sighed reluctantly taking a seat in the other chair.

“Oh, that can’t be true!” Damien said earnestly. He leaned forward in his chair and a fired danced behind his eager eyes. A daunting smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “My dad says things have gotten even worse.”

Kenny’s stomach did a little flip-flop. He though back to all he had done to try to better the lives of the South Park folks. The sleepless nights, the disappearance of free time, the loss of his education. After all of that and things had gotten worse. Deep down he must have known that all of his work was getting nowhere, but gotten worse? The Lord of the Underworld would be the one to know, and Damien wouldn’t lie to him.

Damien inhaled deeply and slowly, like he was breathing in Kenny’s failure. His eyes closed in pleasure.

Sighing in exasperation, Kenny reached over and began to reset the chess board. Damien was always white. His opponent was always black. Damien sat back and watched Kenny work wordlessly, and when the board was set, he moved his pawn forward two spaces. Kenny took a moment to strategize before immediately moving out his knight. Although it never really mattered. Kenny used to actually give these little games an effort, but he ended up realizing that it didn’t matter. Damien _always_ won. It didn’t matter who it was or where it was or when it was, no one _ever_ won a game of chess against Damien. And the loser always got the same treatment, no friend discounts.

The moves continued as the two remained silent. A pawn here, a bishop there. Damien was always one step ahead.

“So…” Damien prompted. He didn’t look up from the board. “What misery stories do you have for me?”

“What do you care anyway,” Kenny snapped in anger. He didn’t look up from the board either.

“I’m literally the son of Lucifer, Kenny,” Damien retorted condescendingly. “I feed off of grief and despair, and South Park is one of the best places to find that. And since I can’t actually go there anymore, my only access to that is you and my dad’s crappy ‘misery detecter’ gadget. So tell me already.” He moved his knight precariously close to Kenny’s rook.

Kenny sighed again. He knew from start he wasn’t going to win this. “Who do you want to know about.” He moved his rook to the other side of the board.

Damien smiled and Kenny immediately regretted his move. Damien’s queen swooped in and Kenny’s rook was gone before he knew what had happened. Damien caught his eye with a triumphant grin. “Hmm. How about we start with Stanley Marsh.”

Kenny wanted to shake his head and say no. It wasn’t his job to spread around the business of other people regardless, but especially not when said person was one of his best friends, which he still considered Stan to be one. But he knew he wouldn’t win if he tried to resist, and, anyway, who was Damien going to tell?

So he gave in. “He’s getting worse, I think.” In a desperate attempt to save his last bishop, Kenny hid it behind a pawn. Damien gladly took his queen instead. Kenny continued. “He made himself throw up last night. I made sure he ate all his dinner, but I don’t know if he kept it down. He’s still really messed up about his sister…” he trailed off, hoping that be enough. His king took a single pawn from Damien and Kenny felt like it was Christmas.

Damien’s head nodded in understanding. Kenny itched to ask him about Shelly. Surely he of all creatures would know if she was still alive. But he knew Damien wouldn’t tell him, he never had before. He’d asked about it so much that Damien actually got mad whenever he tried to bring it up. Getting information and keeping information away from Damien were two things that were utterly impossible.

“What about Kyle?” Damien’s pawn took Kenny’s last.

Kenny surveyed the rest of the board. He had left his king, a rook, a bishop, and both of his knights. It seemed that no matter where he moved, something was going to take his piece away. Giving up, he moved his rook a couple of spaces. “He’s the same, I guess,” Kenny finally answered. He looked away, watched the river flowing as he finished the story. “I think Ike is still giving him a hard time, and his mom isn’t letting up either. Dad’s never home. I think he’s lonely, since I’m always busy and Stan is a little preoccupied with his own shit to help Kyle with his.”

Damien had fallen silent. Kenny looked back to see that he was staring intently at the board, his brow furrowed in concentration. This was the first time that Kenny had ever seen Damien looked genuinely confused. Kenny searched the board for the source of Damien’s worry and found that he had inadvertently trapped Damien’s king between three of his pieces. Damien could move it into safety, but it would sacrifice his queen and, if Kenny played his cards right, maybe even one of his rooks.

Damien took the move. He ushered his king into security, but Kenny’s bishop took his queen. Damien tried to move his rook back, but it fell right in step with Kenny’s knight. They were both gone, tossed off the board with the rest of Kenny’s pieces. Damien leaned back, impressed. He didn’t say it, but Kenny could see it his brows and his shoulders. Kenny had never managed to take more than a few of his pawns at a time, let alone his queen. But the victory was short-lived. Damien’s knight and last rook closed in on his king, and before Kenny could push aside his pride to regather his bearings, Damien had him in checkmate.

“Damien, wait!” Kenny caught his wrist as he reached across the board to knock over his king. Damien paused and looked at him with curious eyes. “I need to ask you something.”

A genuinely apologetic smile appeared on Damien’s face. As much as he was a pain in Kenny’s ass, Kenny always knew that Damien still considered him a close friend. “Oh, Kenneth,” he sighed, shaking his head sadly.

Kenny stopped him there. “I really need you answer me. I need to know.” He took a deep breath to calm his raging emotions. “What happened to Butters.”

Damien sighed again. “Kenny, you know I can’t tell you that.”

Kenny gritted his teeth. “ _Can’t_ , or _won’t_?”

Damien shook his head in response.

Before Kenny could plead with him further, he felt himself flying through the air, sailing away from Damien and his chess board, arcing towards the river below his ridge. He had lost the game, and Damien was done with his questions. Kenny braced himself for the intense burn that was about to hit him as he crashed head first into the lava, but before he completed his fall, he felt the familiar sense of himself being pulled upwards. Black creeped on the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes as he felt his soul being ripped apart and tossed in the air, leaving behind Damien and his secrecy below.

**A/N: So I guess I'm just really bad a posting punctually. I'd make another excuse, but I've run out and that wouldn't be fair. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this chapter and leave me a comment telling me what you think and how I could improve! Thank you for sticking with me.**


	6. A Panic Attack Over A Walking Stick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a long A/N at the end of the chapter, so apologize in advance.

“Kenny!” Michael sat on the edge of Kenny’s lumpy bed and shook his shoulder. Kenny stirred with a low groan and rolled on his other side. Michael sighed. He looked at the blonde boy with a disapproving gaze. He was always doing this, getting drunk or high, missing class, missing work. He was born in the slums and that’s where he was going to end up because he didn’t care enough to get out of it.

“Kenny,” he said again, this time with more force. “Get up.” Kenny squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his ratty sheet over his head. Michael got up from the bed and walked towards the kitchen. A floor board squeaked under his boot.

Distractedly, he set the kettle on the stove to boil. The house was very quite. Kenny used to talk all the time about how much his parents fought, but either neither of them where home, or they were still sound asleep. Even the outside noise of cars and birds was muffled from the inside.

As the water heated, Michael wandered around the kitchen. There were stacks and stacks of unpaid bills and disability checks piled on the slanted table. Receipts and catalogs spilled off the edges and had been kicked under the chairs. The sink was overflowing with unwashed dishes and a strange stench seeped from the refrigerator. A trail of ants led up the wall by a stuck-open window.

As the kettle began to steam and stir, he dragged the broom out from behind a stack of old newspapers in the corner and began sweeping the small bits of dirt and rat droppings into a pile. The dust sprayed up and coated the bottom of his boots. Dammit. These were expensive shoes.

A slamming from above made him jump, and down the stairs thumped little brown-haired Karen. She barely spared him a glance as she began rummaging through the cupboards. Michael finished the cleaning and took the screeching kettle off the stove. The instant coffee was not where it used to be on the counter.

“Hey, where’s your instant coffee?” His question was barely above a whisper and was deep and scratchy, but Karen heard him even as she loudly washed a mixing bowl from the sink.

“I don’t know,” she sort-of said back. It was more of unintelligible mumble, but Michael was fluent in Mumble. He stared at the back of her head for a second more before giving up and scouring the kitchen for another fifteen minutes as the water got cold. Karen eventually slammed her way back into her room with her mixing bowl filled to the brim with lukewarm milk and store-brand Frosted Flakes.

By the time he finally made it back to Kenny’s room with two mugs of gitty coffee, Kenny was sitting on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. Micheal switched on the light and held out one of the mugs. Kenny took it with a heavy sigh.

After a few sips, he was up and rummaging through his drawers for a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. The mattress squeaked as Michael sat back down on it. He lit up a cigarette.

“Bad night?” Kenny grunted in response, but took the cigarette Michael held out to him. “It’s past three.” He didn’t even get a grunt this time as Kenny made his way out the door and down the hall to the bathroom. The running water irritated the pipes in the walls; it sounded like a ghost house.

As Michael waited, he scrolled through a few social media sites on his phone. Having social media accounts was definitely conformist, but he could stalk other people on Instagram without creating an account himself. Looks like Stan and Kyle have been spending their after-school hours at Stark Pond—nothing new. Craig has continued his series of self-indulgent selfies with his guitar. Even Red posted a picture at her ballet class last night.

How conformist.

He heard Kenny’s footsteps coming back in before the blonde rounded the corner. “Are you planning on showing up to a single class before the end of the first week is done? You know you have to get all your syllabuses signed. And Pete tells me you’ve already started getting algebra homework—“

Kenny spoke for the first time, cutting him off. “Did you need something, Michael?”

Michael huffed and being interrupted, but let it drop. “Yeah, actually. Scott’s looking for a headcount. You coming on Friday?” When Kenny hesitated to answer, he took the shot. “Or do you already have plans to run around town in footie pajamas playing superhero all night?”

Kenny slammed his mug onto his nightstand inches from Michael’s head, which would have startled him if he hadn’t been expecting it. He continued to leisurely scroll through his phone.

“You can tell your boss I’ll be there. Now leave.” And he disappeared again down the hallway, mumbling something to himself _...could have done this over the damn phone..._

Micheal sighed. Kenny seemed unusually touchy today. Either it was a worse night than Micheal had thought or something else was amiss. Not like he cared—or so he told himself.

He let himself out, hearing Kenny banging things around in the kitchen. Even outside he could hear the rustling through the broken windows. He left it behind, crossing the railroads into air that seemed almost immediately much more breathable.

~

By the time Michael finally got back home, he’d spent two dollars on a useless bus ride to find Firkle had made a mess.

Baking, he called it. Michael called it a waste of perfectly good flour, especially when there was never anything to show for it. The powder coated every kitchen surface, from the counter to the floor, and added a layer of white on top of the layer of dirt already caked onto Michaels boots. Besides that was added-in pockets of brown sugar piles, half-and-half spills, and a few cracked and dripping eggs. Beyond the kitchen lead footprints of powder into the living room and part-way up the stairs where more cracked eggs and drips of milk lay. Every light was shut off, the mess instead lit by the flickers of several purple candles sticks set strategically around the space. The shades were drawn, shrouding every other part of the house in eerie darkness.

Michael sighed and flicked on the lights as he entered in. He shrugged off his trench coat as a sickly whine emanated from somewhere behind the kitchen island.

“I’m trying to bake!” It said in one of the most pathetic voices Michael had ever heard. “Turn them off, turn them off!”

“You can bake with the lights on, Firkle,” he sighed. Little footsteps followed him up the stairs and into his bedroom. “And you can’t bake if you don’t know how to turn the oven on.”

Firkle flopped onto his makeshift bed of blankets and malting decorative pillows on the floor near Michael’s closet. “I wasn’t doing that kind of baking.”

A sigh. Of course he wasn’t. Black magic baking? Or Cthulhu worship baking? Sure, Michael lit candles and recited prayers and “tried” to resummon Cthulhu like all the other goths, but his heart was never really into it. A hobby, more like.

And least _his_ hobby didn’t explode all over someone else’s kitchen.

He began making his bed, as he’d run out of time that morning. Firkle was a bitch to get to school on time. “So, are you planning on going home ever, or…?” The silence behind him was a good-enough answer.

He risked a peak over his shoulder. Firkle was on his back, head rested on a cushion of some kind. He starred blankly at the celling while his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his black tee. Michael took a moment to memorize the online of the bruise on the apple of his cheek before sighing and standing up straight. It must have been a bad night. For all the times Firkle turned up at his door looking for shelter with some lame excuse of homework help or boredom, Michael had only been able to see any kind of mark on him a handful of times. The kid never talked about it, and Michael only tried asking once.

He let the sudden emotions rising in his chest subside before heading back down the stairs. When Firkle caught up, he was already looking down at the chaos, shaking his head with dismay. Firkle fidgeted with his collar. “I was worried. You weren’t home, and you left without your cane.”

That damn cane.

Michael had honestly stopped using it by the time he started middle school, and no one put up a fuss. It was the natural progression of things. He had never needed it, and while still goth, his style changed as he matured. He wasn’t some kind of cripple.

Then three years passed, Firkle’s home life spiraled out of control, and Michael became some kind of surrogate father to this child that wasn’t even halfway through elementary school yet. Out of the blue, Firkle would point out every time Micheal didn’t have his cane. He fretted, cried even, until Micheal relented and started dragging it around again. He wouldn’t take it if he wasn’t with Firkle, it was never worth it. But even though that stupid stick was now more of a hassle than any kind of fashion statement, it was better than listening to Firkle break down with a panic attack.

Micheal definitely needed everything clean before his dad came home. He rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead. Where was he even supposed to start? Firkle continued to fidget next to him.

“Alright,” he sighed. He sighed a lot when Firkle was with him. “Want to come to the diner with me? I need some coffee.” Firkle grew a rare smile as he nodded.

Micheal lead the way to the door, grabbing his trench coat from the coatrack as he yanked on the doorknob. He wordlessly took the cane, that damn cane, as Firkle handed it to him and bounded ahead of him down the front steps. As they walked together down the pathway and onto the sidewalk, Firkle began humming a soft tune that staled in the are around it. Michael recognized melody and started singing along silently in his head. _Loo loo loo, I’ve got some apples, loo loo loo, you’ve got some too…_ Such a familiar song, and yet Micheal couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was from.

 

**A/N: Well, well, look who's back from the dead. Every once in a while, as I live my life, I think about this story and how much I love it, and my heart hurts that I don't know how to write it. I'm so passionate about the characters and the story itself, but I just can't for the life of me figure out the logistics. It's awfully hard to write a story when you don't know what the fuck is going on, truly. If it feels like the story is kind of stagnant and nothing is going anywhere, that's why. Anyway, I hope with all my heart that I can figure things out, because when it comes down to it, I really miss writing in this world. I'll do my best. And if things continue as I want them to, I hope to ramp up the length of each chapter because boy-howdy are we going nowhere fast.**

**As always, comments and tips are welcome. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will enjoy anything I'm able to whip up in the future. Thanks for reading!**


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